Childhood Ambition
by Meredith Trainor
Summary: In the midst of a dreary case  is there any other kind? , Watson poses a question that actually makes Sherlock really think. Which, we know, is rather impressive.  Slashfic but could be taken as friendship: rated K. Oneshot.


Childhood Ambition

A Sherlock slashfic

Rating: PG

Summary: In the midst of a dreary case (is there any other kind?), Watson poses a question that makes Sherlock really think. Which, we know, is really saying something.

"Sherlock?"

"The calibur of this shot doesn't match that of the pistol we found at the other scenes, but that doesn't mean the MO is different, or that the Child's Play killer isn't responsible for this crime..." Holmes's mind was already racing, his eyes scanning the young boy's room for more clues.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was softer now, closer. The criminal genius looked up, startled at the intrusion upon his mind.

"Yes, Watson?"

"Looking at all these children, dead, you know, it's made me wonder..."

"What is it, Watson; please, do get to the point!"

"I just wondered, since all these children obviously had dreams, and hopes for the future, I mean if you look at Lilian's closet or Justin's colorings, you can see what they wanted to be..."

"Watson, I will be very cross if you do not get to the point immediately, because you are wasting my time."

"Fine, Sherlock, forget about it."

"No, now that you've distracted me, I cannot simply 'forget about it' until you make yourself clear, and that is quite detrimental to the work, so I recommend you do so quickly." Holmes's eyes always had that glint when he mentioned _the work_. It was as if he was speaking of a lover, or a delicious memory long treasured.

"Well you don't have to make a big production about it! I just wondered what you wanted to be, if you were ever a child." John didn't catch his error quickly enough, and as he begun to say "_when_ you were a child," Holmes cut in.

"_If_ I were a child! What a marvelous notion! My dear Watson, you seem to suggest that I was born a full-grown man, sprung out of my father's hip like a Greek god, or landed on Earth in a spaceship!" To all outside eyes, he appeared to be making light banter, but John knew the detective well enough to know he had deeply offended him. "That's quite an intriguing idea, my dear Watson, one I'm sure your fans will love to read on that blog of yours." And with that, he sharply turned away and strode out the door, leaving Lestrade and John alone with the crime scene, John's unanswered question throbbing in the air like the pain in his leg.

The army doctor sighed and bid the inspector goodnight.

He had plans with Sarah, but it was to Baker Street he told the cabbie to drive, and by the time he'd remembered he had a girlfriend, the cab was stopping outside his house. _I'll ring her and apologize, say my leg's acting up or something. Again,_ John thought with a pang of guilt. Sarah... what was going to happen to them? Between work and life's stress and _Sherlock,_ he hardly spent any time with her, and she was beginning to whine more.

"Hi, Sarah. Yes, it's me. Well I'm sorry, but- oh, I see. Yes, I suppose it's- for the better, yes. Oh, are you? No, please don't say that, you were always- I see. Yes, I'll miss you, too. Mmhmm. Okay, well I'll be seeing y-" She hung up on him. It was the shortest amount of time any woman had taken to break up with Dr. John Watson, and he was more than a little sad about it.

"Good evening," said a familiar voice, coming down the stairs.

"Evening, Sherlock," he replied with a dull voice.

"So you just ended your relationship with Sarah? That's good, she wasn't good enough for you..." Holmes said absentmindedly as he plucked at his violin.

"Will you stop that infernal noise?" John burst out. There was an awkward pause, and then,

Sherlock laughed.

"Oh, come on, Watson, you sound like my mother. Well, I'll stop playing if you have a drink with me. You look like you could use one; I know breaking up is a bad way to conclude a day spent staring at the corpses of children. Scotch or gin?"

"Scotch, please." It was amazing, John thought, how a man like Holmes could take everything in life one step at a time, tuning out all irrelevant matters until the opportune moment. He both envied and pitied him.

"Watson! For God's sake, pay attention. I asked if you wanted an honest answer."

"Hmm? An honest answer to what?"

"To your query from before-at the crime scene? You asked if I had ambitions as a child."

"Oh, yes." The memory was blurred around the edges by the wash of liquor, but he could make out the question.

"I'd like to hear your answer first, frankly."

"Why?"

"Because it fascinates me. Did the brave war hero always fantasize about performing surgery in the heat of battle? Or did you dream of firing the gun yourself?" There was an unusual absence of the satire John would normally have suspected. Or perhaps it was that the alcohol masked it.

"Neither. I wanted to be a firefighter, and rescue families from burning houses. I never dreamed of going into war. My parents were pacifists; I grew up in fear of battles."

"Extroardinary! Watson, you are a veritable symbol of the times, a product of this period's propoganda! Just think, if-"

"Hold it right there, now, Sherlock. You never answered your end."

"Oh, that is true, isn't it?" He examined the back of his right hand. "You'd laugh."

"I wouldn't. Did you want to be a circus clown?"

"Oh, God, no."

"A wrestler, then? Or a cricket player?"

"No. Nothing of that sort."

"Give us a clue, then! A movie actor? A prime minister?"

"Not even close. Here's your clue... I would not be featured in nearly as many newspapers, or have nearly as many people try to kill me in a 7 day period."

"That's no clue-that could be any profession!"

"Do you give up?" His eyes sparkled, and John surrendered.

"Fine. What did little Sherlock want to be when he grew up?" To John's amazement, Holmes picked up the violin from the kitchen table and touched its wood surfaces lovingly, making no noise, but appearing wistful. It was a new look for him, and John couldn't decide if he liked it.

"I wanted to be a renowned musician. Play in Carnegie Hall, and light up the great stages of Europe. But more than that, Watson, I wanted to re-energize the world. So many people go through life from television program to program to take-out meal to sports match to Sunday service... and the feeling is lost. Sometimes I used to catch myself thinking that if I didn't find just one person who felt something, who felt as I did, I'd lose my mind."

John nodded; he knew the feeling well.

"So, did you?"

"Become a famous musician? Of course not, Watson."

"Stop that. You know what I meant. Did you find that person, the one who hadn't lost passion?"

At this new query, the glint returned to Holmes's eyes, and he seemed to snap back to the present with renewed vigor.

"I would have thought that to be obvious, my dear Watson! With whom else would I offer to share a house?"

And, leaving Watson with this new concept to torment him-that he and Holmes were more alike than he ever thought-Holmes took his leave and went to bed.

Meredith: Reviews are love! I've gotten one terrible rating already; tell me what you really think!


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